


If you were a fruit, you'd be a fineapple

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Series: Slice of Heaven [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, pineapple pizza is gross pass it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: What if your soulmate's pizza turned out to have pineapple on it?  A soulmate AU with an unusual flavour.





	If you were a fruit, you'd be a fineapple

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written a soulmate trope fic. This seems a weird place to start, but here we are. For hmasfatty, whose taste in pizza toppings is deeply questionable but whom I love anyway :P
> 
> PS: I don’t know how accurate any of these favourite toppings are except that Dylan is [on record](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CHfwgmk2DM&feature=youtu.be) saying he doesn’t really like cheese which is frankly bewildering.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

Connor looks up from slicing peppers with a concerned expression as Mitch trudges into Slice of Heaven Pizza and drapes himself dramatically over the counter.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

Mitch just holds up his left arm and lets Connor see the brand new soulmark on his wrist, still a little pink around the edges like a recent tattoo. It feels all tingly still, like a faint patch of pins-and-needles, a constant reminder that love is a lie and the universe hates him. Connor blinks at him for a second, uncomprehending, and then splutters a laugh.

“Oh dear.”

“It’s a pineapple,” Mitch says. “A _fucking pineapple_.”

Connor tosses him an apron, a subtle hint that his shift technically started five minutes ago and now isn’t the time for melodrama, but Mitch just sighs.

Look, he’s a romantic. He’s been waiting for his soulmark to come in for as long as he can remember, dreaming about the day he sits down for a meal with his soulmate, the one person in all the world who’s meant for him and him alone, and he already knows exactly what pizza to order. It’s just such a beautiful idea, having their favourite topping right there on his wrist like their heart on his sleeve, and knowing somewhere out there is a person with a perfect little mushroom imprinted on their skin that means they belong to him.

Some people think soulmarks are cheesy - a little pizza pun there for you - but Mitch thinks they’re wonderful. He loves them so much he works at a pizza place just so he gets to be there for those moments when a person comes in all excited to pick up their order and he can tell, he just _knows_ , they’re about to eat pizza with their soulmate for the very first time. It’s such a nice thing to be part of those moments. He’s been impatient to see what his mark will be for his whole life.

He had no idea the reality would be such a disaster. He fucking _hates_ pineapple on pizza.

“Davo, how can I love someone when their whole outlook on life is _fundamentally wrong?_ ” he wails, putting his head down on the counter.

Connor shrugs. “I dunno, buddy. I guess opposites attract.”

*

“Maybe it was a prank,” Mitch says desperately later that night. He’s sprawled out on the floor in Connor and Dylan’s living room where they’re supposedly trying to distract him from his terrible Fate with takeout and video games, but it’s not working. “Maybe someone snuck into my room and gave me a regular tattoo while I was asleep. I’ve heard of that happening, you know. Counterfeit soulmarks.”

“Maybe,” Connor says doubtfully. “Does it feel like a tattoo? Like, is it sore?”

Mitch rubs his thumb over the mark, smooth and soft as ordinary skin. “I mean, it’s kind of itchy.”

“Nah, that’s normal,” Dylan says. “It stops once you find your person and soulbond for real, that’s just like...a reminder to keep looking, I guess.” 

Connor reaches out and rests his hand on the back of Dylan’s neck, easy and casual like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. They definitely don’t need to keep looking. “I think if it was a tattoo it’d still hurt, wouldn’t it?” he frowns. “And how would you sleep through it anyway?”

Mitch thinks back to getting his actual, much bigger tattoo; hours of digging his fingernails into his palm so hard it left little half moon indentations afterwards, just trying to get through the relentless needling pain. The only thing that kept him from telling the tattooist to stop about a dozen times was the knowledge that he’d be stuck with a shitty half-finished tattoo for the rest of his life unless he powered through it. People who say tattoos don’t hurt that much are full of shit. And then there was the rawness afterwards, like having a bad sunburn for weeks. Plus wrists are way more sensitive than arms; the mark’s small, only a couple of centimetres tall, but he still probably couldn’t really sleep through someone tattooing his wrist.

“Maybe they drugged me,” he says petulantly and throws an arm across his face. He really, really doesn’t want it to be his real soulmark.

“Stop worrying about it so much,” Dylan tells him, poking him in the side with his foot. “Just wait and see what happens.”

It’s basically what his mom told him when he woke up to find his mark that morning and called her to freak out about it: “Fate doesn’t make mistakes, Mitchell.” Which is easy for her to say; dad’s favourite pizza topping is pepperoni. He heaves a disconsolate sigh.

“Maybe we should eat,” Connor suggests.

“Sure,” says Dylan, and then grins at Mitch because he’s kind of an asshole. “Pizza?”

Mitch sticks his tongue out at him. “I thought you didn’t like pizza,” he accuses. 

He can still remember the day Connor turned up to work all flushed and excited to show him the little red X on his wrist because he already knew exactly who it was for. Most people don’t bond as early as Connor and Dylan did; it’s more common to take a while to find your soulmate after your mark appears, and normal to wait a year or two after you do find them before bonding for real. The bond can be intense, especially if you don't know each other very well. But frankly it was inconceivable those two codependent losers could be meant for anyone else.

“I don’t like cheese,” Dylan says, shrugging. “Bread with other stuff on it is okay though.”

Mitch knows this, of course, but he still makes a face. “How can you not like cheese?”

Dylan makes a face right back. “It's oily, salty, hardened milk,” he says. “What's there to like?”

“You’re...oh my God. How do you even get out of bed in the morning?”

“Sometimes I wonder that myself,” he says, and gives Connor a soppy, adoring look that Connor returns with interest. Mitch usually thinks the goofy way they look at each other is cute as fuck but tonight he wishes he didn’t have to see it. Tonight it’s just a reminder that normal people get to have perfect happily ever after soulmate romances and he’s stuck with the spiky tropical fruit of eternal disappointment.

“No pizza,” he says decisively. He just can’t face the food of love tonight.

They order chinese food from a place nearby that Connor and Dylan haven’t tried before instead and, because life is pain, when it turns up Mitch’s sweet and sour pork has pineapple chunks in it.

“The universe is clearly fucking with you, man,” Dylan says cheerfully, picking the pineapple bits out of Mitch’s meal and dropping them one by one into his mongolian chicken like some kind of animal. Cheese-hating savoury-fruit-eating weirdo. He’d probably happily eat a plain pizza base covered in nothing but sauce and pineapple, which may actually be Mitch’s idea of hell.

“I hate everything,” he says as he takes his dinner back, once Dylan’s finished decontaminating it.

“You’re welcome,” says Dylan.

*

A week later, the soulmark is still there, still buzzing gently like a bee trapped under Mitch’s skin.

“That’s kind of how it works,” Connor says with a small smile when Mitch complains about it. “They don’t go away, you know.” He flashes his - Dylan’s - little red X to prove it. Mitch knows it’s a long shot but he was kind of hoping it would turn out to be some kind of mistake, like Fate might realise it sent the stupid pineapple mark to the wrong person and just quietly take it back.

Fate doesn’t make mistakes, Mitchell.

Maybe it’s not even a real soulmark, he thinks. Maybe it’s a metaphor, not a sign that his soulmate is a damn lunatic who actually enjoys tropical fruit with cheese and sauce but a sign that he doesn’t get to have a soulmate at _all_ , that his life is just going to be as miserable and disappointing as a pizza littered with pineapple chunks.

Well, fine. If Fate’s closing the door on true love, then he’s closing the door on pineapple.

Mitch makes an executive decision that Slice of Heaven is no longer serving pineapple on pizzas. If any orders come in that have pineapple on them, well, customers are just going to be disappointed, as disappointed as Mitch is whenever he looks at his stupid soulmark. When nobody’s watching he grabs the pineapple tub out of the toppings station and dumps it in the garbage, leaving just a few pieces in the bottom so it looks like they naturally ran out. The perfect crime.

About ten minutes later the phone rings.

“Hi there, you've called Slice of Heaven Pizza, this is Mitch,” he says brightly. “How can I bring you closer to heaven today?”

The caller gives a little choked off laugh. “Wow,” he says. “Do you always answer the phone like that?”

“Only when the caller’s cute,” Mitch says cheerfully. It makes the guy laugh again, which is definitely the right response.

“You can't see me,” he points out reasonably. “I could be a hideous troll for all you know.”

“Pfft,” says Mitch. He leans his elbows on the counter and grins, letting his smile carry over into his voice, warm and lazy. “Impossible. You sound like an eight at least. What can I do for you?”

It’s a sneaky tactic, flirting shamelessly with the customers, but it usually gets them to order extra garlic bread so Mitch feels fine about it. He’s won the “best upseller” award at the store Christmas party every year since he started working here.

Anyway, flirting is fun, and phone guy has kind of a sexy voice. He _could_ be a hideous troll, but it’s not like that matters over the phone.

“Well, for _now_ ,” phone guy says, lowering his voice a little, “I just wanted to order a pizza for delivery.” 

Mitch gets a weird little shiver up his spine at the way he says _for now_ , like a promise, and it’s a strangely intense reaction, getting all tingly over a disembodied voice on the phone. He shakes his head and tries to ignore it.

“Uh huh,” he says, grabbing a pen and the order pad. “Anything specific or should I surprise you?”

“Oh, right,” the guy says. “A large hawaiian, please. With extra pineapple.”

Mitch could swear he hears an actual record scratch in his head. His soulmark gives a particularly insistent buzz, like it’s mocking him. _Fucking pineapple_.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, through gritted teeth. “No can do. We’re completely out of pineapple.”

“Aw, seriously?” says phone guy, who Mitch is now re-christening terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings guy. “Completely out?”

“Yup,” says Mitch. “It’s super weird but there’s just no pineapple left in the store at all. _Such_ a shame.”

“Huh,” says the guy.

“I could do you a regular old ham and cheese,” Mitch suggests. “Or you can add mushrooms instead of pineapple if you want. Mushroom goes great on basically any pizza, don’t you think?”

“Ugh, no thanks,” terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings guy says, further demonstrating the accuracy of his new name. “I can’t stand mushrooms. Just ham and cheese’ll be fine, I guess.”

“Great, and once again, I’m really sorry about the pineapple.” Mitch lies. “Can I get a name and address for that delivery?”

The guy gives his name - Auston, with an o; he spells it out for Mitch because apparently he’s very particular about spelling as well as completely insane about pizza toppings - and his address, which is an apartment a couple of blocks away from Slice of Heaven. Mitch tells him his order should be there in about twenty minutes and then hangs up without even trying to get him to order any add ons, he’s so frazzled by the pineapple thing. Fucking typical. Even when there technically isn’t any pineapple around, it messes everything up.

He glares at the little yellow and green mark on his wrist, which has stopped humming like someone’s trying to call him while his phone’s on silent and gone back to its ordinary prickly tingling.

“I fucking hate you,” he tells it crossly.

The tiny pineapple doesn’t reply.

*

Terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings-Auston calls back five more times in the next two weeks, because apparently either the guy can’t cook or he’s really, really into pizza. Mitch goes back to flirting with him because, irreconcilable culinary differences aside, it’s fun, and he remembers to ask about the add-ons after the first time which turns out to be excellent for his personal sales numbers. Auston can never remember the sides menu, he makes Mitch read it out to him every time, but he’s a real sucker for the flirty upsell technique. Either that or he has an amazing appetite; a large pizza, two garlic breads and a frozen cheesecake is kind of a huge order for one person. Mitch wonders briefly if he lives with someone, but he can never hear anyone in the background when Auston calls.

Not that he’s, like, listening extra hard or anything. He’s not _interested_ in a faceless voice on the phone, no matter how nice a voice it is or how nice the guy who owns it is to talk to. That’d be weird, right?

Of course, Auston keeps ordering pizzas with pineapple on them and Mitch keeps coming up with new reasons why he can’t have them, because it doesn’t matter how much fun he’s having flirting, Mitch is not going to compromise on the worst pizza topping in creation.

“Oh wow,” he says, turning around at the register to stare at the full tub of pineapple pieces over at the toppings station. Connor looks up from the pizza he’s currently dressing and gives him a quizzical look. “You just have the worst luck, my dude.”

“Oh, come on,” Auston says. “Again?”

“Yep. Completely out. It really is the weirdest thing. I think there must be some kind of workplace dispute going on with the pineapple farmers’ union or something. Can I get you something else?”

Auston settles on the quattro formaggi (Dylan would be horrified) but passes on Mitch’s very good suggestion of adding mushrooms. Four cheese and mushrooms is probably the best pizza there is, but he also orders two desserts and a side of breadsticks, so Mitch isn’t really complaining.

He hangs up the phone, smiling, and turns around to hand Connor the order slip.

“Pineapple farmer’s union, huh?” Connor says, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s just terrible,” Mitch says, wide-eyed and earnest. “All they want is fair pay for honest work. I, for one, am behind them all the way.”

“Your solidarity is truly touching,” Connor says dryly. “But next time can you maybe consider letting people order what they want? If he wants pineapple and we never have it, then eventually he’s going to go somewhere else.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mitch says.

*

It’s a very quiet Wednesday night. Mitch is killing time doodling mushrooms on the scratch pad next to the phone when the bell over the door jingles and he looks up to see the most beautiful man he’s ever seen walking into the store.

“Well hi there, hey, hello,” he says stupidly as his brain undergoes a very small meltdown. “What can you do me...I mean, how can I serve...uh...what’s up, man?”

The customer narrows his eyes slightly and then glances down at the nametag on Mitch’s chest. Then the slight squint turns into a full blown glare which is, quite frankly, alarming. The guy may be gorgeous but he’s also intimidatingly large. He marches up to the counter and slaps a Slice of Heaven pizza box down onto it.

“What you can do for me is explain _this_ ,” he says furiously, and if that wasn’t enough of a clue as to his identity Mitch recognises his voice straight away. So it turns out Auston the terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings guy isn’t a hideous troll after all. Holy shit, he’s a total babe. He’s also really, _really_ mad.

Connor appears suddenly at Mitch’s side, wiping his hands on his apron and smiling his nice, bland, calming-down-angry-customers smile. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asks pleasantly. He’s got like a sixth sense for getting Mitch out of trouble, which is normally awesome because Connor is so boring it setlles people down instantly, like magic, but Mitch kind of wishes he wouldn’t this time. He’s just going to be pissed off when he finds out what Mitch did. Auston throws the lid of the pizza box open with a wholly unnecessary flourish.

Inside is a pizza, a perfectly respectable barbecue chicken pizza with a nice even layer of chicken pieces, a drizzle of Slice of Heaven’s signature secret recipe barbecue sauce, and a perfectly golden layer of cheese. Connor frowns at it in confusion, as well he should; he knows the pizza’s perfect because he made it himself about half an hour ago. Then he notices the note scrawled in sharpie inside the lid, which was definitely not there when he boxed up the pizza.

_Couldn’t bring myself to put pineapple on it. That’s gross. Sorry._

Mitch winces.

“In my defense,” he says, “I didn’t charge you for the added pineapple.”

“You are unbelievable,” Auston says. He turns to Connor and adds, “did you know this...this…” he splutters like he can’t think of a word terrible enough, “ _guy_ has been blocking me from ordering anything with pineapple on it for like three weeks?

“Three _weeks?_ ” Connor repeats, staring at him.

“I was saving you from yourself,” Mitch protests. “Pineapple on pizza is an abomination.”

“Seriously,” Auston demands, “what is your problem? I’m a paying customer, what the hell do you care what I eat on my pizza? I’m not making you eat it!”

“I’m a conscientious objector,” Mitch says, lifting his chin.

“A conscientious objector,” Auston repeats flatly. “To pineapple.”

“That’s right,” says Mitch. “I find pineapple on pizza unconscionable. Like animal testing. Or war crimes.”

Connor kicks him in the ankle behind the counter.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says without missing a beat, even though Auston can’t be any older than either of them. “Of course Slice of Heaven doesn’t usually discriminate on the basis of toppings, my colleague here has just been having a...difficult time this month.” He glares at Mitch, as if warning him not to say anything else. “If you’d like to wait a few minutes I’d be very happy to make you up a new pizza with as much pineapple as you want, on the house.”

Auston scowls. His eyes dart over the counter like he’s looking for a missile to throw at them or something, and narrow slightly when they land on the scratch pad full of Mitch’s idle mushroom drawings.

“Don’t bother,” he says curtly. “I’ve had enough. I’ll get my pizza somewhere else from now on.”

Then he turns on the spot and stalks out, leaving his superior, pineapple-free pizza where it is on the counter.

Mitch picks up a slice and takes a bite. Slice of Heaven’s barbecue sauce is really good, okay. No sense letting it go to waste.

He glances at Connor, expecting to get a serve for being rude and judgemental with a customer, but Connor’s just looking at him with a weird, thoughtful expression on his face, head tilted to one side. Mitch frowns at him while he finishes his slice of pizza, but Connor says nothing.

“How’s your soulmark feeling?” he says at last. It’s kind of an abrupt change of subject, but at least he’s not doing his I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed face. Obviously he thinks the stress of the mark is what’s making Mitch act extra...well, extra lately. He’s not wrong.

“Ugh, it’s driving me crazy,” Mitch scowls, rubbing his wrist. “That whole time we were talking about pineapples it was tingling like a--”

He stops. He looks down at the mark, tiny and bright against his skin, and then up at Connor who’s looking back at him with such a smug expression he may as well have a neon sign saying “Ha!” hanging over him.

“No,” Mitch says. “No fucking way.”

Connor shrugs. “Did you get a look at his wrist?”

Mitch shakes his head. “He was wearing all these leather bracelet thingies,” he says dazedly. He didn’t think anything of it at the time. A lot of people think of their marks as private, prefer to cover them up until they know for sure who they’re for.

“Hm,” says Connor. Then he adds casually, “Sure left in a hurry after he saw what you’d been drawing, didn’t he?”

Mitch looks down at the scratch pad full of sketchy, scrawled mushrooms. He feels lightheaded all of a sudden and there’s a weird rushing noise in his ears. His heart is going a mile a minute. Holy shit.

“I think I need to sit down,” he says.

*

Auston doesn’t come back.

He’s absolutely true to his word about finding somewhere else to get pizza, or else he’s just given up on it altogether, because two whole weeks pass and Slice of Heaven doesn’t get a single call from him. Mitch knows; he checks with the servers on every night he’s not working just to be completely sure. The terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings guy - _his_ terrible-taste-in-pizza-toppings guy - is gone.

“Didn’t I say pineapple ruins everything?” he says, sitting cross-legged on Connor and Dylan’s couch while Dylan destroys him at Mario Kart. “He seemed really great apart from the pineapple thing and now I’m going to be alone forever.” 

“You mean he seemed really _hot_ apart from the pineapple thing,” says Dylan. Mitch punches him in the arm.

“Shut up. Why couldn’t he like...I don’t know, anchovies or broccoli or something.”

“You’d rather have a soulmate whose favourite pizza topping is _broccoli?_ ”

“Anything would be better than this.”

They lapse into silence. Mitch is usually much more competitive at Mario Kart but his heart’s just not in it today. He feels lost, like all the joy and romance and potential of the future has just been completely sucked out of his life at the tender age of twenty. He always thought knowing - or suspecting, anyway - who his soulmate is would be a good thing, not a disaster. 

On top of that, he barely knows Auston at all but he misses him anyway, like there’s a big handsome pineapple-loving hole in his life all of a sudden. It’s really disconcerting. The tingly feeling in his mark is almost painful now, like it knows he fucked up.

“You know, my brother’s soulmate’s a vegetarian,” Dylan says after a while, out of nowhere.

“Does _she_ like broccoli?” Mitch asks. Maybe Ryan’d be willing to swap.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “I _mean_ because she’s a vegetarian she kind of freaked out when she woke up one morning with a pepperoni soulmark.”

“Oh, right,” Mitch says, frowning. “Yeah, that would be weird. What’d she do?”

“Got over it, I guess,” Dylan shrugs. “When they order a pizza together they get half and half, pepperoni on one side and vegetarian on the other. He likes olives - that’s her topping - so they get olives all over.”

“Auston doesn’t like mushrooms,” Mitch says sadly.

“Yeah, well,” Dylan gives him a lopsided smile. “You win some, you lose some.”

They both look down at Dylan’s hands, and the little yellow wedge of cheese on the inside of his wrist. 

Mitch knows he and Connor were both into each other before either of them got their marks, they’d been best friends and then some since high school and they already knew each other’s feelings about pizza toppings, so it’s different for them than it is for him. But even so, having something you hate be the symbol for your greatest love is _weird_ , and he doesn’t understand why Dylan never seems bothered by it.

“Do you guys...do that too?” he asks awkwardly. It feels a little invasive, but they’re friends, he’s pretty sure Dylan will just tell him to fuck off if things get too personal. “Half cheese, half no cheese?”

“I mean, pizza without cheese isn’t really pizza,” Dylan says. “I’d rather just eat something else most of the time.”

Mitch scrunches up his face. “So what, you just don’t eat pizza with your soulmate? Ever?”

Dylan shrugs again. “Sometimes we order pizza and I eat it because it makes him happy, and making him happy makes me happy. Sometimes we get chinese food and there’s no cheese on anything. Sometimes he orders pizza and I order something else. It’s not really a big deal. There’s more to being soulmates than pizza toppings.”

Mitch turns that over in his mind. He doesn’t know anyone who embodies #relationshipgoals better than Connor and Dylan. Before he got his soulmark he used to look at them together and think: _I hope I get that lucky_. Surely if they can be that perfect for each other without any pizza tastes in common, when one of them doesn’t even like pizza at all, he can survive a little pineapple for the sake of happiness. Or at least try to.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah, I guess there is.”

*

It’s probably deeply unethical and borderline illegal to use Auston’s pizza orders to find the apartment building where he lives, but it’s not like Mitch stole an order slip or anything, he just wrote down the guy’s address so many times it’s imprinted on his memory. Surely just remembering stuff is fine.

He manages to get a nice middle aged lady to let him into the foyer by admiring her dog (while holding a pizza and wearing a Slice of Heaven polo shirt, may as well try and sell it) and then makes his way up to Auston’s apartment on the third floor. He hesitates for a moment outside the door, wondering if he’s doing the right thing, but then his soulmark fizzes so insistently it’s like an electric shock, so he takes a deep breath and hammers on the door.

Auston looks suspicious when he opens it, like he’s expecting some kind of attack but he’s too curious to resist. Mitch doesn’t give himself a chance to chicken out; he wastes no time in shoving the pizza box into Auston’s hands.

“It’s a peace offering,” he says awkwardly as Auston looks inside. “I was kind of a dick about the whole pineapple thing. Um. I’m sorry.”

“I can tell,” Auston deadpans. “You spelled out “sorry” in bits of pineapple.”

“There’s more under the cheese, too,” Mitch says miserably. “There’s never been a pizza with so much pineapple on it.”

Auston laughs a little, small but real. “Wow,” he says, half smiling, “you really are sorry. D’you want to come in?”

“You’re not gonna make me eat it, are you?” Mitch screws his face up.

“Are you kidding?” Auston smiles wider. “As if I’d share the most pineappley pizza in history with a loser like you.”

He steps aside so Mitch can come in, but he’s a big dude and the entryway’s kind of narrow, so there’s an awkward moment when he has to hold the pizza in the air with one hand while Mitch sort of ducks under his arm to squeeze past. Mitch tries not to glance up at his wrist, but he can’t help it; his eyes flick upwards without his permission, drawn like a magnet to where Auston’s soulmark would be if he has one.

He does, but he moves too quickly for Mitch to make out what it is, just a vague brownish shape. It could be a mushroom but it could just as easily be, like, ground beef or garlic or something. Mitch’s mark is going crazy, though. It no longer feels like a bee trapped under his skin so much as a whole swarm of bees; he can almost _hear_ the buzzing, it’s so intense.

Auston doesn’t seem to notice anything. He ushers Mitch into the apartment without really seeming to care if he goes or not, just walking forward and assuming he’ll get out of the way. It’s not until he takes a seat in an armchair, leaving the whole couch for Mitch, that Mitch starts to realise Auston’s just as nervous as he is. He sits with his knees together and balances the pizza box on them without opening it, and they both sort of stare at each other in silence for a moment, as if they’re both waiting for something to happen.

Of course, Mitch is the one who came here, so he’s probably the one who needs to make something happen.

“You stopped calling my shop,” he says at last, twisting his fingers together in his lap.

“I said I was going to,” Auston points out. He doesn't sound angry this time, though, just kind of tired.

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “But you're…”

He can't say it. He can't say “you're my soulmate” to someone he’s really only ever spoken to on the phone. Especially not someone he’s been harassing about pineapple for weeks like a total asshole. _God_.

“I mean, aren’t you?” he says instead, which...doesn’t really make any sense, but he must be right. And if he’s right, Auston must be feeling exactly what he is right now, being this close to each other, the persistent tingling from the mark and the jittery full-of-butterflies feeling all over his body, like something important is about to happen. He must know.

Auston frowns at him, but he doesn’t say “aren’t I what?” What he says is: “I don’t really like mushrooms either.”

He gets up and puts the pizza box down on his chair. Mitch sits very still, watching silently as he comes and sits down next to him on the couch. Then he pulls up his sleeve and shows Mitch his wrist.

“That’s you, right?”

It’s weird. Mitch knows there are people who, like, get off on seeing other people’s soulmarks, the same way there are foot fetishists and stuff. It’s not like showing your wrists is slutty or taboo, there are plenty of people like him who never bother covering theirs, but still there are some people out there who find them hot. He’s never understood that before now.

Seeing Auston’s bare wrist for the first time makes his breath catch in his throat. His arms are as thick as the rest of him, and the inside of his wrist is a little pale and looks smooth and soft, with a tracery of veins just under the skin. And there’s the perfect little mushroom mark, just like Mitch always imagined it, as familiar as seeing his own face in the mirror.

He’s seen other people with mushroom marks before. It’s a pretty common pizza topping. When he was younger he wondered how he was ever going to tell when he met the person who had _his_ mushroom, how he’d be sure he was looking at his own soulmate and not someone else’s. Now he’s actually looking at it, his own heart on Auston’s sleeve, he can’t understand why he ever thought it would be hard to tell. This is Fate. When you know, you know.

“Yeah,” he says, a little shakily. “Yep. That’s me.”

He turns his left hand palm up so Auston can see. The flicker of recognition in his eyes is unmistakable. Even though it’s all completely, overwhelmingly new, Mitch thinks he gets it, the tumble of emotions that chase each other across Auston’s face. He gets plenty of attention, but nobody’s ever looked at him like _that_ before, intense and nervous and _hungry_ all at the same time. Still, it’s not really strange, because he’s feeling all the same things. His soulmark is going crazy, buzzing so hard he’s surprised his whole arm isn’t shaking. 

When Auston looks up and meets his eyes, they both suck in a breath at the same time. The moment feels impossibly charged, unbearably loaded.

“Can I…?”

Mitch nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.

Auston takes Mitch’s hand, cradling it in his broad palm, then reaches out with the other hand to brush one fingertip over the - over _his_ \- pineapple mark. Mitch has to close his eyes. It’s a lot.

“Woah,” Auston says, sounding a little breathless as he strokes Mitch’s wrist, light and careful. “Tingly.”

“Jesus,” Mitch says with a shaky laugh. Auston looks up, taking his hand away.

“Sorry. Is this...too much?”

Mitch shakes his head. “No, it’s...I know it's like...we don't even know each other,” he says, and gives another helpless little laugh. “Not really. But I just...I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

Auston blinks, once, and then answers by putting his hand on Mitch’s jaw and pressing their lips together, just like that. Not a tentative guy, this one.

Mitch grabs his wrist without even meaning to, and his hand must brush over the soulmark because Auston shudders and leans into him, and then Mitch’s leans back and they’re kissing for real, open mouthed and a little desperate.

Mitch has kissed plenty of people in his life - just because you know there’s only one soulmate in your future doesn’t mean kissing other people isn’t _fun_ \- but it was never like this. When Auston rubs his thumb over the mark on Mitch’s wrist it’s hard to tell where each of them ends and the other begins, less like making out and more like some kind of metaphysical transcendence layered over the sensation of Auston’s hands and mouth on him. And, like, those would be pretty amazing even on their own, this is some objectively excellent kissing. But the connection is something else, something immense and wonderful he could easily get lost in.

He’s knows what that is, even though he’s never experienced it before; his body trying desperately to initiate a soulbond, to bind them together forever the way Fate wants them to be. It’s a far stronger compulsion than he was expecting, and coming on much faster than he anticipated too. He always thought bonding was something you had to work up to, but now he can see that all he’d have to do is just let it happen. It’d be so easy.

“Wait, wait,” he says. He means to pull away completely but he can't quite bring himself to so he just rests his forehead against Auston’s, still holding on to his wrist. His fingers stroke restlessly over the mushroom mark on Auston’s skin, sending sparks through his fingertips and all along his arm, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. “We’re skipping a few steps here.”

He sort of wants to skip all the steps, but he knows that's the soulmark talking, the white hot hum of Fate thrumming through him like electricity arcing between the point of his hand on Auston’s mark and Auston’s on his. It's unbelievable, overwhelming. Auston takes a deep shaky breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right, we should...hit pause.”

He sounds like he wants to pause about as much as Mitch does, but he lets go of Mitch’s wrist all the same, lets his hand rest warm and heavy on his thigh instead.

With an effort, Mitch lets go of Auston’s wrist as well.

His heart's still racing, but he can think again now without the feeling of his soul trying to tug itself right out of his body. After a moment, he opens his eyes and sits back.

Auston’s looking back at him with this huge, momentous look on his face, like Mitch is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Mitch kind of knows the feeling. It’s surreal, seeing someone as a stranger and yet achingly familiar at the same time.

“Hi,” he says, and Auston’s face breaks into a huge, dumb grin. It makes him look young, and kinda stupid, and it’s just...amazing.

“Hey,” says Auston. 

Mitch is pretty sure his own smile is just as stupid. He’s trying to seem at least a little bit cool but inside his brain is basically just a hamster wheel he’s running around on yelling AAAAAAAAAH.

“So we should, like, go on a date or something yeah?” he says. “That’s what people do, right? To get to know each other?”

“Yeah,” says Auston. “I hear that’s what the kids are into these days.”

God, he’s a fucking dork. Mitch is so into it.

“So what should we...do?” he says. “I mean. Pizza’s traditional.”

Auston raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s gonna work, man.”

Right. Because Auston doesn't really like mushrooms, and his favourite pizza is something Mitch has previously compared to a war crime. Awkward.

“We could order two pizzas,” says Mitch. “One with mushroom and one with...with pineapple. Or half and half. We don’t have to share everything just because we’re…” his heart does a little jump kick at the thought of saying “we’re soulmates” even though it’s pretty fucking clear at this point. “It's not a _rule_. I work with a guy whose soulmate hates cheese.”

Auston looks faintly disgusted. “How can you hate cheese?” he says. Then he shakes his head. “Never mind, I’ve got a better idea.” Mitch must look unsure, because he grins. “Trust me. Just come here at eight tomorrow. And wear something nice.”

*

“Marns, those shirts are literally identical.”

Mitch stares, trying to work out if Dylan’s joking, because the only thing the two shirts he’s holding up have in common is that they’re both blue. They’re not even the _same_ blue. He appeals to Connor, who’s perched next to Dylan on the end of the bed, but Connor just shrugs helplessly.

“Uh, they’re both nice?”

“Oh my God,” Mitch huffs. “You two are useless. I don’t even know why I asked you for help in the first place.”

Dylan looks, at all hours of the day, like he just rolled out of bed after about half the recommended amount of sleep; he was never going to be any help. Connor manages to dress well about twenty percent of the time, but Mitch is pretty sure that’s an accident.

“Beats me,” Dylan sighs, leaning back on his elbows and trying to kick Mitch until he jumps out of the way. “I don’t see why it matters what you wear anyway. You already know he’s your soulmate. It’s not like he’s going to care.”

“That’s not…” Mitch splutters. “One, that’s not the point, and two, _what?_ That's stupid.”

Dylan shrugs. “That’s love.”

Mitch gets a weird swoopy feeling in his stomach when he hears that. Of course he’s not _in love_ with Auston yet, they’ve never even had a conversation that wasn’t about pizza, but he’s going to be, he knows that. It’s so strange to think about. Good strange, the kind that makes him feel all warm with anticipation, but still strange.

“Bullshit,” he says. “Of course he’s going to care, I care! Are you telling me neither of you notices when the other one makes an effort to look good?”

“I always think he looks good,” Connor says, wide-eyed.

“Aw, Davo,” says Dylan, leaning into his side, but Mitch is unimpressed.

“No way,” he says. “Have you forgotten that time he tried to grow a moustache?”

“Forget it, Marns,” Dylan says, smug. “He always thinks I--”

“No wait, that’s a good point,” says Connor. “That moustache was the worst.” Then he laughs as Dylan makes an outraged noise and throws one of Mitch’s pillows at him.

The thing they don’t get is that they’re _lucky_ to have ended up the way they did, soulmates with someone they already knew and liked and maybe even were on the way to being in love with before they ever got their marks. It’s not like that for most people, who meet their soulmate for the first time after the marks show up, and have to get to know them already knowing they’re destined for each other. For Connor and Dylan, their marks just meant: great, now we can kiss each other like we’ve always wanted to without worrying about it getting weird later when we bond with other people. For Mitch it means: this guy is your perfect match and nobody else will ever feel right to you, but you're going to have to work the rest out for yourself.

No pressure.

“He said to wear something nice, so I want to wear something nice,” he says. It comes out a little whiny. 

He’s starting to feel anxious about it, now. “Nice” is so vague when he doesn’t know where they’re going or what they’re going. What does nice even mean? Is it suit and tie or is that too fancy? No tie? Dress pants or just jeans with no holes in them? Jeans with only cool looking holes in them?? Mitch feels like his head is about to start spinning around on his neck.

“Okay, fine,” Dylan sighs, sitting up. “Not blue. You look like you’re trying too hard when you wear blue. You should wear the purple jacket.”

Mitch tilts his head, peering into the wardrobe. “You think I look good in the purple jacket?”

“ _You_ think you look good in the purple jacket,” says Dylan, “which means you’ll feel more relaxed and you’ll have a better time. And if you're still worried about making a good impression, you're cuter when you’re having a good time.”

“Hey, that’s actually good advice,” says Connor, looking at Dylan in surprise.

“Yeah,” says Mitch, nodding slowly. An outfit is already building itself in his head around the purple jacket. “Yeah it is, thanks man.”

Dylan gives Connor a triumphant look. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

*

Mitch settles on the purple jacket and no tie in the end, and then stuffs a tie in his pocket on his way out the door, just in case. When Auston buzzes him up Mitch takes the stairs two at a time and then has to stop to catch his breath before he can go knock on the door; his heart’s hammering like crazy. He checks his hair for the hundredth time that evening in the darkened window at the top of the stairs, his own face looking back at him like an anxious ghost.

It’s only a date, for fuck’s sake. He needs to try and forget about the soulmate thing and just...take it one step at a time.

“It’s just a date,” he tells his reflection sternly, and then jumps at the way his voice echoes down the stairwell.

He thinks he’s prepared for when Auston opens the door, but he definitely is not. Jacket and no tie was the right choice, because that’s what Auston’s wearing as well, but...he looks really fucking good in a suit. The crazy thing is he’s staring at Mitch with the same dumbstruck expression Mitch can feel on his own face.

“You look…”

“So do you, holy shit,” Mitch blurts. “Unless you were about to say terrible in which case...the opposite of that.”

Auston turns bright pink. “Uh, no, definitely not terrible,” he says, all bashful, and it’s so fucking cute Mitch can hardly stand it. He laughs and reaches out to tug on Auston’s sleeve, suddenly feeling a lot less nervous.

“Thanks,” he grins. “So where are you taking me, handsome?” he says, just to make Auston blush again; it totally works and it’s totally Mitch’s new favourite thing.

“You’ll see,” he says.

Auston takes him to this trendy little restaurant with exposed brick walls and industrial light fittings, where all the dishes have fashionable ingredients done in unexpectedly elaborate ways with, like, gels and foams and stuff. It’s all delicious, but it kind of makes Mitch feel like an imposter; he works in a pizza place, his culinary tastes are not elaborate. Still, there’s a risotto with _five_ different types of mushroom in it, and Auston makes a quietly pleased face when Mitch orders it like he already knew it was on the menu, a fact that settles in Mitch’s chest like a warm, comforting weight.

Maybe having a soulmate is just going to be like this until he gets used to it. Just when he thinks it must be a misunderstanding, just at those moments where Auston feels most like a stranger, something like that happens that makes him think _Fate doesn’t make mistakes_.

The conversation is just easy. Mitch doesn’t know if that’s a soulmates thing or if that’s just them, but they click like they’ve known each other for years. It’s just like their phone calls at Slice of Heaven, before they had any idea they were soulmates, except now they can talk about things other than pizza.

“And I don’t have to order a million desserts every time just to keep you on the phone,” Auston says.

“Aw,” Mitch says, propping his chin on one hand. “And here I thought you were only into me for my cheesecake.”

“You had a different dumb excuse for being out of pineapple every time I ordered,” Auston reminds him. “The cheesecake is not that good.”

Mitch starts to laugh, but then something about that strikes him. He frowns. “Wait. You knew the pineapple thing wasn’t true the whole time?”

“Dude,” Auston says flatly. “A workplace dispute with the pineapple farmers’ union? Seriously?”

Hang on. That doesn’t make any sense. “But you ordered it every time. If you knew I was pineapple blocking you on purpose why didn’t you go somewhere else?”

Auston sighs. “Because the first time you told me I should have _mushrooms_ instead I felt like my soulmark was going to explode,” he says, making a face. “And I thought...if I’m talking to my soulmate and I can tell even over the phone, then he must know too. And if he _knows_ , why’s he being so weird about pineapple?”

Mitch stares at him.

“I figured if I called enough times you’d eventually explain what was going on. But then I got that last delivery…”

“With the note,” Mitch says quietly, guilt settling like a rock in his stomach.

“Yeah, with the note. And I thought…”

He can hardly imagine it, getting a message from your soulmate that basically says _your soul is gross, I can’t bring myself to acknowledge you, sorry._ And then…

“Auston,” Mitch says miserably. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know until after you came into the shop. If I’d realised I never would’ve…”

_I find pineapple on pizza unconscionable. Like animal testing. Or war crimes._

Fuck.

Auston ducks his head. For a horrible moment Mitch wonders if he’s about to cry or something, and he reaches across the table for Auston’s hand, feeling like the most terrible person alive. The moment their fingers touch, though, Auston looks up at him again and _snorts_.

“Uh, yeah,” he grins, “I kind of figured that when you turned up at my place with that...that fucking awful apology pizza.”

Mitch jerks in his seat. “ _Awful_ ,” he repeats. “What do you mean awful?”

“Oh my God,” Auston shakes his head, laughing. “There was so much pineapple on that thing it was unbelievable. Not even I like pineapple that much.”

“I...okay, Connor did tell me I might have gone a bit overboard,” Mitch admits.

“The base was so soaked with juice it wasn’t even cooked in the middle.”

“I mean,” Mitch protests, an involuntary smile tugging at his lips, “I was trying to make up for three weeks of…”

“When I tried to pick up a slice it broke in half and all the topping just slid right off.”

Mitch claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the squawk of laughter that bubbles up at that image. “Hey,” he giggles. “I’ll have you know that was a very heartfelt…”

“There was pineapple juice _pooling_ in the bottom of the box.”

Mitch can’t maintain his composure for a second longer; he puts his head down on the table and cackles. That sets Auston off as well, and then the pair of them are doubled over with laughter, clinging to the table.

“You wrote sorry on it,” Auston wheezes. “In pineapple. That is so _lame_.”

“ _So_ lame,” Mitch is practically crying. “Oh my God, it wasn’t even _cooked?_ ”

Auston shakes his head, too overcome with laughter to even speak. The older couple at the next table over both glare at them, and that only makes them laugh harder, Mitch reaching out to clutch at Auston’s hand while tears roll down his cheeks.

“So, you know,” Auston says finally, once they’ve both regained enough composure to breathe again. “After that I figured you were probably just an idiot.”

“Hey,” Mitch laughs. They’re still holding hands, but neither of them makes a move to let go. Auston smiles at him, that big dumb uncalculated smile, and Mitch can feel his soulmark humming in time with the beat of his heart.

“My idiot, though,” Auston says.

*

After they’ve finished dinner, Auston calls their waitress over and whispers something in her ear, hiding behind his hand so Mitch can’t even try and lipread. She glances at Mitch and beams.

“Of course,” she tells Auston. “My pleasure.”

Mitch knows that look. It looks exactly like he feels every time someone comes into Slice of Heaven to pick up their first pizza to share as soulmates.

“I’m not going to be able to eat much pizza on top of everything else,” he tells Auston doubtfully. He doesn’t point out that already being full before he tries to eat it is not going to endear pineapple pizza to him any better. He’s going to try it anyway. And if he’s willing to try and it’s still just not for him, well that’s really all he can do. He’s starting to feel like Auston will probably be okay with that. 

There’s more to being soulmates than pizza toppings.

“Trust me,” Auston says. “It’s only a little one.”

What the waitress brings back doesn’t look like a pizza at all until she sets the plate down between them. It’s small, more the size of a pancake than a regular pizza, and there’s no mozzarella or tomato or meat or anything like that. There’s big pieces of grilled, caramelised pineapple, but they’re surrounded by cream cheese, golden caramel and candied pecans, and the whole thing smells of sugar and cinnamon. It’s definitely a pizza though, with a crisp, round crust.

“Our signature dessert pizza,” the waitress announces, beaming. “And congratulations!”

“Dessert pizza?” Mitch repeats. Auston’s watching him carefully from across the table.

“Well yeah,” he says. “You said pizza’s traditional. And I figured a lot of people who don't like pineapple on pizza just don't like fruit and savoury stuff together. This is still a pizza, so it's kind of traditional. But it's sweet.”

 _You're_ sweet, Mitch thinks, staring at the pizza. He’s heard of dessert pizzas before, of course, but usually only chocolate ones, not ones with fruit on them. He’s never seen one with pineapple before. This...this might even work.

There's a dessert fork on the table, but this is pizza and pizza’s meant to be eaten with your hands, so Mitch picks up a slice and takes a bite. Auston watches him intently.

“Stop staring at me like that,” Mitch tells him, with his mouth full, trying not to smile.

“Shut up and eat your pizza,” Auston retorts.

It’s weird eating with someone staring at you, waiting to see if you’re enjoying yourself; it kind of makes Mitch feel like he’s taking an exam, like he needs to respond in the right way. He’s so busy feeling self-conscious he doesn’t even realise he’s actually enjoying the pizza until suddenly the slice is gone. He stares at his hand, startled to find it empty.

“That’s...actually good,” he says after a moment, kind of stunned. Auston raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah?”

Mitch just ate a slice of pineapple pizza. And _liked_ it.

“Am I hallucinating? Did you hypnotise me or something?”

Auston grins at him. “Nah,” he says. “You’re a secret pineapple fan. You just needed to try it the right way. Sorry I couldn’t get any mushrooms on there.”

Mitch snorts. “That’s date number two,” he says. He takes another slice of the dessert pizza and nudges the plate across the table so Auston takes one too, and then he holds up his slice like a wine glass. “A toast!” he declares.

“It’s not toast,” says Auston, “it’s pizza,” and Mitch might fall a little bit in love with him for that awful joke alone. He kicks him under the table anyway.

“To trying new things,” Mitch says, bumping their pizza slices together.

“New things seem pretty great so far,” Auston agrees.

*

“Ow, fuck!”

The pan falls out of Mitch’s hand with a clang, scattering half its contents across the counter top. From the bedroom, a sleep-muffled voice calls “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mitch sing-songs back as he tries to repair the damage, fingertips smarting as he juggles piping hot food. “Don’t get up, everything’s fine.”

“I wasn’t going to get up,” Auston says. “I just wondered if I should call an ambulance or the fire brigade or something.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

Mitch arranges everything on a tray and stands back to admire his work. Not bad. He takes a photo for instagram and then covers the tray with a tea towel and carries it back into the bedroom, nudging the door open with his hip. 

Auston looks up from his nest of blankets, hair falling in his face all soft and sleepy and cute, and Mitch has to stop in the doorway and admire the scene for a moment. When Auston raises an eyebrow at him, Mitch can feel his little burst of fondness humming through their shared bond.

“Shut up,” Auston says.

“I didn’t say anything,” Mitch smiles, knowing perfectly well he didn’t have to. He’s still getting used to that, to sharing so much of what he’s feeling with his soulmate without even having to think about it, but it’s pretty awesome so far. “How can you be so ungrateful when I risked life and limb to make you breakfast?”

Auston sits up, shoving the pillows around to his liking as Mitch carries the tray over and climbs onto the bed. He feels warm and soft when Mitch leans into his side, both the physical him and the other part of him, the part that’s just for Mitch.

“You risked life and limb?”

“Well, I burnt my finger,” Mitch says, showing him. Auston rolls his eyes, but he also kisses Mitch’s fingertip, so Mitch is pretty sure he still likes him.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, looking down at the towel-covered tray as Mitch tucks his legs under the blankets.

“It’s our anniversary!” Mitch tells him, mock outraged. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

Auston makes a face. “Marns,” he says, “we’ve been bonded for a week. You can’t celebrate a one week anniversary.”

“I mean, I can,” Mitch says. “But I don’t mean that one. I mean our one year anniversary.”

“Our one…” Auston blinks at him. “Since what?”

Mitch grins at him. He grabs one corner of the tea towel and whips it away with a flourish, revealing the breakfast he sacrificed a finger to make.

“Oh my God,” says Auston.

“It’s not _really_ traditional,” Mitch admits. “I got Connor to help me get the ratios right this time, so this one’s actually cooked in the middle, I checked. But I bet it’s still the most pineappley _breakfast_ pizza in history.”

The mini pizza is the size of a dinner plate, with a modest layer of pineapple pieces under the golden crust of melted cheese, and no pools of pineapple juice to be seen. There’s a side of bacon to make it more breakfast-y. And the extra pineapple chunks on the top don’t spell out SORRY this time; they say I LOVE YOU.

“You are such an idiot,” Auston says. He’s laughing almost too much to kiss Mitch, but he manages it anyway, one hand steadying the tray and the other one cupping the back of Mitch’s head. Their bond floods with affection, amplified and passed back and forth between them until Mitch feels surrounded by it, like being enveloped with love.

It’s pretty fucking great.

“Your idiot, though,” he says, and Auston beams.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts: the hawaiian pizza was apparently [invented in Ontario](http://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-tuesday-edition-1.3991263/canadian-inventor-of-hawaiian-pizza-defends-pineapple-after-iceland-s-president-disses-fruit-topping-1.3992890), and the note Mitch left in Auston’s pizza box actually comes from [an incident with a pizza shop in Arizona](https://www.thrillist.com/news/nation/restaurant-refuses-pineapple-pizza-with-note-arizona-campus). ~*everything is connected*~


End file.
